Down and Out in the Far Far Away (Sarge)

[Jorus Merrill]

The cantina was like any other, a place for, say, spacers to have a moment's peace between jobs.

Between jobs -- a longstanding euphemism for bored, frustrated, unfulfilled and guilty.

Jorus hunched over a table, examining the cantina through the refraction of a half-full mug. He couldn't afford the real stuff, not on what he was making these days. The Hutts payed pretty well, but the best jobs went to the people without scruples.

He could probably burn some kneecaps for the kid. A pink-faced baby wriggled on the table before him, chewing on a chunk of Mandalorian armor. Jorus downed the glass and realized his tab had run out.

Feth.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Whatever relative peace the cantina had was shattered by a man literally kicking a door off it's hinges and sending it bouncing halfway into the establishment. Walking inside a moment later with a shotgun up and at the ready was a man in what was likely the scariest power armor around.

"ALRIGHT, THIS IS A HOLD UP."

There was a myriad of hums and clicks, and half the cantina pointed their weapons at the intruder.

"Kriff you guys can't take a joke anymore.", the armored man responds before letting his weapon hang limp at his side, the barrel scraping along the floor.

The weapons were put away, and someone from the back yelled something that sounded like "We're gettin' tired of your shit, Sarge", but it was hard to tell.

Still, the skull helmet looked towards the offender with a careful slowness and in the span of just under a second a pistol was pulled out, a shot was put into the heckler's shoulder, and the weapon was placed back into it's holster.

Silence reigned.

"Gorram friggin' jokesters.", Sarge grumbles before his helmet tags Jorus and brings the man to his attention.

"JORUS AND HIS LOVECHILD!"

Because that was just as subtle as his entrance.

There was a groan of pain from the back, and then the dull roar renewed.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

Having the kid around made him just a touch on edge. So when Sarge busted in, in the half second before the power armor clicked in the back of Jorus's head, the Warden stood, grabbing the huge beskar shotgun that rested against the table. One round was riot shot, one round was lix. As usual. Both pretty much useless against something that size.

Then, of course, it all clicked. All associated grumblings from the room echoed Jorus's sour thoughts as he replaced the Mandalorian shell gun by his chair and cuddled the squirming baby. He resumed his seat and kicked out the opposite chair.

"Siddown and try not to crush another chair this time. You're gaining weight faster than the kid. Also, next round's on you."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Whoooooa, Jorus. I ain't that fat. I been stayin' in shape runnin' from that there droid invasion we had, see?" Thankfully chairs around here were pretty reinforced and he didn't shattered it immediately upon easing his bulk into it like it would break any second.

Making himself comfortable and propping his weapon against the edge of the table, Sarge leans forward and waves for another drink for Jorus. "Why is the next round on me? I give you a heart attack?"

 

[Jorus Merrill]

He grimaced and covered the baby's ears. "Aw feth, bro, you know why. All the old jobs dried up, all the new ones need me to crack some skulls in the process. What's left is spice, and spice might be a buyer's market and might be a seller's market but it's sure not a shipper's market. And then I went on that race...and that was frankly awesome, but I shoulda checked the accounts.

"Bottom line, I'm thinkin' pretty hard about your outfit."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge leaned forward, rrrrrrrrrreal close-like. "You want into OmegaPyre, friend? I'm the last person you want vouching for ya' then." He shakes his head. "Let me radio my boss real quick." His helmet speaker turns off and a series of muted clicks heard from within the helmet would likely let Jorus know he was talking to someone.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

Jorus gritted his teeth. "You said you had an in. Talkin' big again, bro?" He pounded down the dregs of the Sullustan draft. "But yeah. Let me know if boss man thinks I'm worth his time. Tell him...feth, tell him I've stared down Dark Masters, Nightsisters, all manner o'crap. Tell him I fought Malice Draclau and I'm a Warden of the Sky. Tell him I need this job like a flea needs a dog."

 

[Ayden Cater]

"Careful who you brag to, Master Merrill." Ayden seemed to materialize from the crowd and set down a trio of glasses and put a bottle of Corellian whiskey down on the table. "It could just get you into more trouble than you're bargaining for." He sat himself down between the men and cracked open the bottle, pouring three generous shots for each and setting the bottle onto the table. "So I hear you're looking for long-term employment. Not that I care anymore than I'd care to wash down a greased up Hutt, butI feel the need to ask the question anyways."

He brought his glass up and threw back the amber liquid with a grimace and sigh before turning to stare at the man. "Ain't got much need for a dried out man. Give me one good reason I should give you the time of day, let alone bring you on with our company?"

 

[Jorus Merrill]

Jorus burped the baby while examining the clarity of the shot. Irritation boiled in him, but he kept it down. He had to treat all of this as intentional.

"Don't mistake desperation for bragging, and don't mistake it for uselessness, either. If I wanted to brag, I'd tell you that I can fly anything from skyhoppers to Star Destroyers, that I'm the fourth-best infobroker in the galaxy, that I've played regime change across the galaxy, that the shotgun leaning against the table is made of Mandalorian iron, that Sarge and I have worked every job from slave revolts on Nar Shaddaa to-"

He sat back and attempted the grin. "Bragging is just about the only thing that proves my quality. I'm pretty good at what I do. I need the work, and I'm not the sort to create galaxy-spanning organizations when times are tough. I don't have the requisite skills to create my own employment. I don't have that luxury, or that kind of startup capital."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge leaned over conspiritorially towards Jorus; "I want you to know that this man is the reason I do any job...", he informs the smuggler. Ayden knew every mission Sarge went on, how it went, and who was along for the ride. "The best thing you could say right now is 'he trusts me to watch his back'."

 

[Jorus Merrill]

"If he's that tight with your jobs, he knows that already, bro." Jorus's eyes never left Ayden's. "He knows I'm one of the very, very few people that's capable of evening you out when you're feeling wild. That right there should tell him I'm worth hiring."

 

[Ayden Cater]

Ayden laughed and poured himself another shot. Man wasn't too far off. Sarge seemed to take delight in causing havoc wherever he went, especially if he wasn't given a mission of some kind. It had nearly driven Cira mad at one point. Still, hiring on a personal baby sitter didn't seem like the best selling point to put down in his report to Cira if he opted to bring Jorrus into the company. He needed something else...

A growl reached his ears, cause Ayden to cock his head ever so slightly to one side. An angry squeal. A Gamorrean and a Wookie were about to go at it. And if this bar was anything like the types of bars he knew Sarge liked to visit, things were about to get interesting very quick. "Things get rough, fast, in our line of work. Might be a good chance to show off some and make yourself look good."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge leaned over to Jorus and nudged him with an elbow. "Go get 'em... I'll watch the baby. Better hurry!"

 

[Jorus Merrill]

Jorus shrugged and handed the baby off to her godfather. "If that's what you value, I can deliver."

He rolled his neck and stood, cracking his knuckles. Any experienced fighter learned to pick up on a certain directness of gaze that signified a new participant. The Gamorrean and the Wookiee glanced at him, sized him up, and indicated -- in mid-growl -- by certain shifts of posture that they knew he was going to be involved.

The Wookee punched the Gamorrean, the Gamorrean punched Jorus, and Jorus reached across his own body to catch the outstretched ham-fist. His thumb locked into the back of the Gamorrean's hand, and he twisted, pulling the porcine alien forward. The wrist, too big to snap with this particular grip, torqued hard. As the alien squealed, Jorus ducked and leaped, his leg just clearing the Gamorrean's head. His hips settled against the back of the alien's shoulder, the back of his right leg braced against the blubbery chest, the back of his left knee bit into the the throat, and he clutched the fat forearm to his own sternum.

A textbook flying arm bar. The sort of thing that screamed Wardens of the Sky, people who had honed their arts against armored enemies. The elbow overextended as he popped his hips forward -- just enough to make the joint unusable, not quite enough to destroy it. The second squeal deafened him, and he tucked his body in close as he and the Gamorrean fell. A chair's edge caught his shoulder, hard.

He clambered to his feet; the Gamorrean did not. The Wookiee eyed him, whuffling hoarsely, and then shrugged.

Jorus resumed his seat.